In the House of the Hangman 1320

“I brake for
squid” responds to a comment made by one of my students during a discussion of
Dickinson (informed, in part, by a parallel one of Kafka). While we examined a
line, the student grew visibly frustrated. Exasperated, she exclaimed, “But we
have no idea what comes before or after that poem. We don’t know the secret or
imaginary poem she cut away.” Have some camphor. Bunny’s on the tin-can
phone, all skyed, locked good, once the sprinkler turned on a cheap blue lace instead
of a rat’s breadline. This is the greatness of Warhol with his canned foods,
senseless accidents, and his series of advertising smiles: the oral and
nutritional equivalence of those half-open lips, teeth, tomato sauce, that
hygiene based on detergents; the equivalence of death in the cavity of an evis­cerated
car, at the top of a telephone pole and at the end of a wire, and between the
glistening, steel blue arms of the electric chair. “It’s the same either way,”
stupidity says, while sinking into itself and infi­nitely extending its nature
with the things it says of itself; “Here or there, it’s always the same thing;
what difference if the colors vary, if they’re darker or lighter. It’s all so
senseless … How stupid this stupidity!” But, in concentrating on this boundless
monotony, we find the sudden illumination of multiplicity itself – with nothing
at its center, at its highest point, or beyond it – a flickering of light that
travels even faster than the eyes and successively lights up the moving labels
and the captive snapshots that refer to each other to eternity, without ever
saying anything: suddenly, arising from the background of the old inertia of
equivalences, the zebra stripe of the event tears through the darkness, and the
eternal phantasm informs that soup can, that singular and depthless face. See
the leaves what leaves? the leaves / on the
ground, the black hand flapping / the brown hand spread as if to grasp / grasp
what? a paving slab a street a sweep
/ of air then some cruddy music and leaf /
leaf flattens, is pressed is what? is the body.
We were always beautiful. Always (LIKE TOASTERS OIL REBAR CLOUDS COTTON
STEAMBOATS WYOMING BOEING 747-400 GLITTER COPYRIGHT LAUGHTER ELK GOOGLE GLASS
AARDVARKS PREDATOR DRONES CATNIP MARRIAGE POLAROID WIND INK HATRED TIME MACHINES
PLATINUM BLANKET BASKETBALL COBIA HOT WINGS). The hyoid bone is not articulated
to any other. And as the plant grows older it realizes it will never be a tree.
But where is the bride? MY EYE -- has freed me, turned me into object that has
turned me into hyper-subject, unable and uninterested in resisting scrutiny,
which is why it is fun to hunt. I am bringing home a self with a perpetual (if
invisible) black eye. For [what] which more than any words cries deeplier?
Thus, you want to get the
atmosphere. The caption states, “Someone was smoking pot.” You can’t help but
breathe deeply while reading that phrase, wanting to inhale the head of the
world. Doesn’t revolt require lubrication and interruption – that’s why it’s
sexy – to release the fish tank into its swerve? She kept saying “fungible,”
and “sun-dried tomatoes happen upon the nicest plates of grass.” They put
stones in their eye sockets. Upper-class people put precious stones. Not
sleeping made the Cycladic people gradually more and more brittle. Their legs
broke off. They wore their faces smooth with trying to sleep, they ground their
lips and nipples off in the distress of pillows. When their faces wore smooth
they painted them back on with azurite and iron ore. But what do I know about
teaching? I think it was probably 2001. I was well into an upper-level course
on modern poetry, reading the first volume of the Rothenberg-Joris anthology. I
was also showing them paintings, playing a lot of music (Schoenberg, Antheil,
et. al). I think I showed them Metropolis
and probably Modern Times. A student
said, “Professor Byrd, I love to listen you talk. You say all kind of
interesting and crazy things. I tell my room mate about it, but what are we supposed
to learn?”

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